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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22568482">weirdness follows me wherever i go</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil'>humanveil</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Derry Girls (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Didn't Know They Were Dating, F/M, ish</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:28:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,165</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22568482</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>James is yet to figure Orla out. He’s not sure he ever will.</p><p>He’s not sure that’s a problem.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James Maguire/Orla McCool</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>190</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Chocolate Box - Round 5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>weirdness follows me wherever i go</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivien/gifts">Vivien</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>I.</strong>
</p><p>James’ chest is tight with affection as he and the girls make their way through Derry, President Clinton’s historic address forgotten in the wake of his decision to stay. They’re huddled close, arms thrown around each other and laughing; the relief at being together after a threat to their status quo palpable. </p><p>Wrapped up in adrenaline as he is, James doesn’t notice just how hard Orla is holding his hand: her fingers clenched around his, the smile she sends him big and bright, her eyes glittering happily.  </p><p>It wouldn’t be strange, anyway. The other girls are all holding on just as tight. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>II.</strong>
</p><p>It’s the following day that Michelle sweet-talks her Da into nicking a few more movies off Pirate Pauline; her calls for a celebratory movie night easier to give in to than oppose. </p><p>They hold it at the Quinn’s house, as Uncle Martin and Aunt Deirdre are home from work, the five of them struggling to fit on the Quinn’s couch. Orla sits beside him as Michelle presses play, their shoulders and thighs pressing together even when James leans against the arm rest. There’s nothing <em>odd</em> about Orla sitting next to him. There isn’t even anything strange about the lack of personal space. <em>No.</em> It’s what she does next that catches his attention. </p><p>A hand settles on his knee, James looking down as he notices the new pressure. It’s Orla’s, her fingers loosely tangled with his, the tips of her fingers tapping a beat against his pant leg, the rhythm matching the movie’s music. When James checks, Orla isn’t looking at him; her gaze focused instead on the TV. </p><p>He swallows. “Orla—” he tries, unsure of where he’s even going with it, but four people shush him in response, Michelle sending him a glare from the other end of the couch, and so James shuts his mouth. </p><p>It doesn’t seem that important, anyway. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>III. </strong>
</p><p>“I got you this wee rock, James,” Orla says a week later, reaching forward to grab his wrist and forcefully lift his arm.</p><p>James opens his palm on reflex, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and Orla puts it in his hand. It’s big and brown with a grey streak on it, little white flecks sparkling like glitter. It just looks like an average rock, really, but Orla’s smiling at him like it’s worth a million pounds, and so James can’t help but smile back.</p><p>“Thank you, Orla,” he says, though it comes out more like a question. Orla nods anyway.</p><p>Erin sighs behind her. “Aye, she found it on the side of the road at Clare’s,” she tells him. “It’s nothin’ special.”</p><p>Orla turns to give her an offended glare, eyes wide and mouth parted. James lifts his shoulders in an awkward half-shrug, looking between them. “Still,” he says, holding the rock close.</p><p>Orla smiles at him again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>IV.</strong>
</p><p>Orla has always been physically affectionate. It’s one of the little things James had noticed when he first arrived: the way she’d lean her head on your shoulder, or pat one of the girls’ hands, or link her arms with the person next to her. It’s just that it’s never really been with <em>him. </em></p><p>Or rather, it <em>hadn’t</em> been. That’s changed, lately. Slowly but surely. James is yet to say something, unsure if he should; unsure if he’s just imagined it.</p><p>But he hasn’t. That much is impossible to ignore, now.  </p><p>They’re sitting in the school hall, listening to Jenny Joyce rage on about a new and improved choir regime. The words go right over James’ head, his mind preoccupied with the way Orla is holding his hand in her lap, the pad of her thumb rubbing patterns across the back, absentminded as she bobs along to the demonstration. It’s… intimate, James thinks. More so than Orla’s casual affection. There’s a heavier weight to it. </p><p>“Gotcha self a girlfriend, aye, James,” comes Michelle’s voice near his ear, the little snicker that follows meant to be offensive. James turns to her, a protest on his tongue, but the words are stuck in his throat; his cheeks burning bright red.</p><p>“Piss off, Michelle,” he manages after a too-long pause, voice barely audible.</p><p>It only makes her laugh harder.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>V.</strong>
</p><p>“Awk, love,” Sarah says one weekend, smiling at him over her cup of tea. “But you two make a cracker couple, don’t you?” She nods to where Orla is holding his arm flat on a piece of paper, tongue peeking out in concentration as she traces his hand with a red crayon, a stack of others just like it resting to the left of them, each hand belonging to a different person. “A true fairy-tale…”</p><p>“You best not be getting up to any funny business, boy,” Granda Joe adds, giving him a pointed look from the other end of the kitchen.</p><p>James looks between them, wide-eyed. “Oh, I—We’re—” he stammers, tripping over himself to explain, but Orla beats him to it.  </p><p>“Aye, Mammy. He’s been perfect,” she says, sparing a glance at Joe. “A true gentleman.”</p><p>“He’d want to be,” Joe adds, the threat implicit as he continues to stare at him.</p><p>James is too scared to comment.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>+ I.</strong>
</p><p>He catches her later, once they’re alone; standing in the hall of the Quinn’s home.</p><p>“Orla,” he tries, hesitant. “Do you think that w—I mean. Are we…”</p><p>He falters at her expression: eyebrows raised as she meets his eye, confusion and expectancy colouring her features. “Are we what, James?” she asks as he falls silent.</p><p>James swallows, gathering his nerve. “Dating,” he says, half-whispered. He can feel his face heat.</p><p>Orla gives him a funny look. “Aye, James,” she says, nodding slowly. “We have been for weeks. You accepted me rock.”</p><p>“Your rock?” he repeats, confused. He knows what she’s talking about – keeps the rock in his bedside drawer – but he doesn’t quite understand the significance.</p><p>Orla stares at him. “Like penguins,” she says, as if it explains everything.</p><p>James blinks. “Right,” he says, and then repeats it: slower this time, drawled under his breath. A thought hits him. “Does everyone know?”</p><p>“Obviously,” Orla says, like she thinks he’s daft.</p><p>She turns, then. Leaves him hanging in the hall as she skips to answer Erin’s call. James watches her go, standing still as he plays catch up, “Obviously,” he repeats to himself, still a bit confused. <em>Obviously? </em></p><p>The door opens behind him, Gerry getting in for the evening. He smiles at him, nudging him further into the house with an easy, “In you go, son,” and James walks forward on reflex.</p><p>He spots Orla sprawled on the couch, battling with Michelle for the last of the pick n mix. She’s an enigma, he thinks. One he’s yet to figure out; one he’s not sure he ever <em>will </em>figure out. But he’s not sure that’s such a problem, either.</p><p>After all, it’s not as if he’s <em>opposed </em>to the two of them dating. He’ll just have to read up on penguin courtship.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <em>weirdness follows me wherever i go, weirdness seems to know me even better than i seem to know myself; i'm someone else. </em>
</p><p><b>soldier</b> - trixie mattel</p></blockquote></div></div>
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